Confrontation
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: Joey ends up calling Children's Aid at the end of season 2, Albert doesn't die and there is a confrontation as Craig struggles to get away from his father once and for all.
1. Chapter 1

I guess I could be oblivious. It's easy, though, to get caught up in the flow of the day to day and not notice things, not notice them until they walk into your kitchen crying and bleeding. That's what happened. I was folding clothes, thinking nice vague run on thoughts when Craig came in.

With Craig there is this charge in the air. You know when he's upset, it's like everything gets all crinkly, sparkly, crackly. There's this energy. It was around him that night. Something was wrong.

"Home already?" I said, picking up a dishtowel and folding it, inhaling the sweet aroma of the dryer sheets.

"I don't want to waste the summer," he said, turning from me, his hand covering his face kind of like those people who get busted for robbery or something and run into the court house. And his voice. It was thick, it was catching, he sounded just like he did that night in the cemetery. That night is kind of my bench mark. When his voice or mannerisms or behavior start to approach how they were that night I know something is wrong.

"What's wrong?" My voice was sharper than I intended, and the fear was deeper than I thought it would be. Then he turned toward me and I saw the tears in his eyes, the cut that was bleeding near one eye. As I watched him the tears that trembled fell.

"I got in a fight," he said, looking at me through the tears. He was trying not to cry and failing, and I looked at the small jagged cut near his eye and the blood that ran down from it.

"With who?" I said, my tone still fearful and sharp. I thought of his friends, the ones I'd met anyway. Spinner and Sean and Marco and Jimmy. I didn't think he'd fight with any of them.

"My dad," he said, and he looked steadily at me, daring me to say something almost. His dad? I couldn't believe it. Why had he even been around him? I never trusted Albert, never. Craig might be too young to realize it but beating your son was not normal behavior. Craig might think that's normal, since that's what he experienced. I knew it wasn't normal. I knew the way he treated Julia wasn't normal. I'd in fact been avoiding the whole idea of Craig going back to him in my head for awhile. I was aware that it was a possibility. It wasn't one that I liked. I didn't think Albert would change.

"Your dad? Why didn't you tell me you were seeing him?" So he'd been sneaking around seeing his dad? That just sucked. It was most likely Albert's doing. I really didn't blame Craig. He was so young, God. 14. He was a baby. If his father started pressuring him to see him again what was the poor kid to do? I just wished he'd told me. Then maybe this wouldn't have happened.

"Because you wouldn't have let me," Craig was saying, touching the blood on his cheek with one finger, and I saw the wince. He wiped his tears away almost angrily.

"You're right I wouldn't have let you! I'm calling the police," I reached for the phone. I'd had it with Albert and what he's done, the way he acts and there is no accountability. I wanted to grab Craig up in a hug but I knew that wasn't what Craig wanted, exactly. He was very aversive to touch. The night in the cemetery when I'd hugged him I felt all of his muscles tense up. Even now when I went to touch his shoulder he jerked away.

"No, Joey. Tomorrow I'm going to call Children's Aid and make sure I never have to see him again," I just looked at him, blinking. In all this time that he's been with me this year that's never been mentioned. We've been going by the silent assumption that he'd return to Albert. I didn't think that was a good idea but I hadn't pushed the issue. Now he stared at me, his eyes wet and red from crying, the blood still dripping down his cheek from that cut. A joyless smile came onto his face.

"I hate him, Joey. I never want to see him again,"

000000000000000000000000000

I got up early the next day like I usually do, the bed empty next to me. In the twilight of just waking I whispered Julia's name and felt again the pain of her absence. Would it ever go away? The sun on her side of the bed illuminating the empty space, that seemed to indicate that it never would.

As the dawn went from pink to gold I made the coffee, listening to the gurgles and the hisses, eagerly awaiting my drug. It was the weekend. I always got up first on the weekend, made my coffee and had toast and eggs. Then Angela got up, her head all sleep messy, curls everywhere, sleep in her eyes. She'd slump over a bowl of cereal and watch cartoons. And then Craig would get up somewhere between 10 and noon. And that's how it went. Craig came downstairs in a better mood than I expected. His cut had scabbed over, and it was bruising around it, faint purple bruising going down his cheek and up toward his eye. I didn't think I'd see bruises on him again. Damn that Albert. Damn him.

"Hey, you guys have anything to add to this grocery list?" I said, thinking of how I'd go and shop and then they'd complain that I didn't get this and I didn't get that. All they wanted was junk. I was trying to buy more fresh fruit and vegetables, more chicken and less red meat. But I guess sometimes all Angie wanted was cookies and all Craig wanted was chips and all I wanted was red wine. The little vices.

"How about a steak for my eye? Or a patch, like a pirate, right Angie?" Craig said, picking her up and flying her like a plane through the living room. He set her down and came over to me, and I went to touch his eye and he jerked away.

"Hey. Is it alright?" I said, thinking I should get him an ice pack and a Tylenol. Something.

"It's fine," he said, looking down, looking embarrassed.

There was a sudden knock at the door and Craig's reaction was, well, nervous. He looked at the door with wide eyes, scared eyes. I saw his breathing start to quicken and become shallow.

"It's my dad," he said, and I thought he was being a little paranoid.

"Your dad? I doubt it," I said, but the fear on his face was real. I felt cold, this coldness that swept through my cells like water. I was so angry with Albert it was almost beyond emotion.

I answered the door, half thinking I would see Albert standing there. Craig's paranoia was catchy. What would I do? Slam the door in his face? Hit him like he hit Craig? I didn't know.

"Hi," I said, scrambling in my head for this kid's name. Sean. It was Sean. Sean Cameron. Emma's old boyfriend, Craig's new friend.

"Hi, Mr. Jeremiah. Is Craig around?"

"Yeah, he's right here," I said, standing aside and letting him in. I saw the relief kind of flood Craig's face, saw his breathing slow down.

"Jesus, what happened to you?" he said, looking critically at Craig's eye.

"My dad did it," he said, head down. Angie looked over at him with this serious look, stopping in mid-play.

"I told you not to go and have dinner with him and all that shit-"

"Hey," I said, looking at Sean. It was the swear. I don't know why I kept trying to protect Angie from the ugly words and truths of the world, but there it was. I wanted it to be a better place for her.

"Sorry," Sean mumbled, glancing over at Angie and then back at Craig, his expression becoming sterner.

"Man, I told you not to go with him-"

"I know, okay! And I'm not going to see him ever again! I'm done with him! I thought he changed, or I just hoped he had, but he didn't! He hit me again and that's it. That's it. I'm done with him,"

I jotted a few more things down on my list, watched from the corner of my eye as Sean sat on the couch and flipped to music videos. Craig sat on the arm of the couch.

I left to shop, leaving Ang in the care of Craig. We could deal with the Children's Aid thing when I got back.

00000000000000000000000000000

My arms loaded with brown shopping bags, I went back into my house. Angie was playing. Craig was staring at the T.V. Sean was rummaging through the fridge.

"Here's more," I said, tossing a bag of chips at him. He caught it in one hand.

"Thanks, Mr. Jeremiah," he said, opening the bag. Craig seemed calm, gazing at the T.V. I wanted to put the groceries away, call the place. It kind of made me nervous. Agency type places always did. What if they wanted to take him from me? What if Albert would rig it somehow and get him back? I could feel the dull throb of the headache starting behind my eyes. Sean had to go. We couldn't start to deal with any of this with him here.

"Craig? Come here," I said, heading upstairs. He looked doubtfully at me and stood up, followed me.

"Yeah?" he said. We were standing in the doorway to his room. It was neat enough for a 14 year old boy. There were piles of CD's on the dresser, clothes hung over chairs, the bed still rumpled and swirled with the pattern of his sleep.

"Listen, we should call Children's Aid," I said.

"Yeah," he said, sounding kind of reluctant. Maybe he'd changed his mind? I didn't want to push him in one direction or the other, but I did want to guide him somehow.

"Do you still want to?" I said, resisting the urge to touch him. It was tough, this no touching thing. I was Italian, we touched. We grabbed and hugged and rubbed backs. It was a way of relating. Craig, though. He cringed from every touch, shrunk away. I understood it. I know he'd been abused and didn't view touch in the same way. He was so damaged, so damaged still. This recent fight with Albert was no good. No good at all. But maybe it could serve as the final straw, the loss of all hope. Maybe now he could move on.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. I've had it, Joey. I can't take it anymore,"

"Okay," I couldn't help myself, I reached out and touched his shoulder. He didn't pull away but he tensed, he kind of jumped a little. I rubbed his shoulder for a second and then stopped.

"So Sean should go home, okay? So we can deal with this?" I didn't really want to kick his friend out but I wanted to start this process.

"Yeah, alright," he said, looking down, and I noticed the way the purple bruise looked against his pale skin.

0000000000000000000000000000000000

The phone cradled against my ear, the tiny ringing. I felt nervous. I felt like I was about to be interrogated. I'd told Craig that I would call, and if they wanted to talk to him then he would talk.

"Hello, Children's Aid," the voice said, a hurried sounding male voice. I pictured a thin overworked guy surrounded by piles of paperwork, folders overflowing, pictures of bruised and battered kids paper clipped to the inside of the files.

"Uh, hi. My name is Joey Jeremiah. I'm calling for my step-son, Craig Manning," I didn't quite know where to start. I held my breath, looked at Craig and tried to plaster a look of confidence on my face.

"Craig Manning? Does he have a case with us?" The guy sounded nice enough, but hurried. I kept imagining this cramped office he was in, papers floating down on him like big sheets of ash, those cheap looking metal desks with phones on them, papers stained with the rings of coffee cups, stale donuts wrapped in clear plastic.

"No, no, he doesn't. I'm calling because of his father, well, he doesn't want to have to see him anymore,"

There was a beat of silence. Craig looked at me with caution, biting his lip.

"Okay, uh, Mr. Jeremiah? Can you bring him in, we'll set up a meeting. Is this an emergency?"

I thought about that. Was it? Craig wasn't in any real danger. Or was he? I mean, what might Albert do? What could he do?

"I don't know, not really. Kind of. I'd just like to do this as soon as possible," Everything was starting to get vague. The edges were getting smeary. I blinked, felt the smooth plastic of the phone under my hand.

"Okay, uh, how about Monday? 10 A.M.? Can you both make it then?"

"Yes. Monday's good. Thank you,"


	2. Chapter 2

Craig was nervous. I told Snake what was up, and he was handling telling the school. The morning went by as usual, and I busied myself with getting Angie ready for school. Craig was playing with his cereal rather than eating it. When he was upset his appetite was the first thing to go.

"I'm gonna drop Angie off at school, then I'll be back, okay?" I said, watching him pick up a spoonful of cereal and letting it drip off the fork. He did his little half shrug and nodded. I wished things didn't have to be so hard for him.

"Alright," I said, and prodded Angie into getting her school bag and jacket and we were off.

It was bright out, blue and sunny, and Angie was smiling and talking next to me. I wondered just how clueless she was, but I suspected she knew more than she was letting on.

With Angie squared away I headed back to the house, feeling the slight butterflies crash against my stomach lining. Craig was ready to go when I got back and we got into the car, both of us quiet. Sometimes I filled awkward and nervous moments with mindless chatter, but there was really no need with Craig. He felt more like my son than ever, and we both knew what was going on. We didn't need the chatter.

I was so nervous, and I knew this as I saw the slight shaking of my hands as I shut the car door in front of the offices of Children's Aid. I wondered at that and then I realized what it was. There was some part of me that was convinced that Albert would get him back.

The bruised eye would help, I thought, looking at the purple bruising around the cut on his pale skin. That was awful, but it was true. Albert was abusive and here was the proof for the world to see. No one could see it with Julia, black and blues covered under long shirt sleeves and pants, and it had always been that way with Craig. All the brokenness and the bruising hidden under thin layers of fabric. Now he would be exposed. I knew, too, that he didn't like that. He didn't like to be pitied as some abused child, some pathetic and damaged kid that could hardly be helped.

I made my way to the office of the social worker I had spoken to on the phone, and he was younger than I had imagined, and stockier. But he had the harried and hurried manner that I expected. We shook hands, and I watched him shake hands with Craig. Craig had his head turned slightly, trying to hide the bruised eye.

We sat down on the opposite side of the desk in his office, and I felt my palms sweating. This was awful and I wished it away. Just let me have him, I thought.

"What happened?" he said to Craig, looking pointedly at his eye, pulling no punches. Craig touched it lightly with his index finger and cleared his throat.

"Uh, my dad. We got in a fight and he hit me,"

The guy was impassive, not uncaring but accustomed to this.

"What else has he done?" he said, and I held my breath a bit. We were getting down to brass tacks awfully quickly. I tended to dance around these things, to draw them out of him if he was willing to speak about them, which he usually wasn't. Craig's eyes had widened a little, and he looked resigned to talking about it, but something in his eyes seemed to say, 'just this once,'

"He's, uh, he's punched me and kicked me and strapped me, he's beat me,"

The guy nodded, wrote things down. Craig shifted in his chair, glanced out the window and not at me. I knew this, though. I knew what Albert had done.

"For how long?" he said, and Craig's attention was dragged back.

"Huh?" Craig said, looking dazed.

"How long had this abuse been going on?"


End file.
